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world. But even the Atheist believes that the principle of order which he worships would prevent such a moral chaos as this. The only escape from the difficulty is through the admission, that the inequalities of this life will be made up in the next, by the apportionment of an infallible Judge.

JOY IN HEAVEN.

BY WILLIAM MOTHERSILL.

WE have reason to believe, when one of the sons of apostate Adam is introduced into the Church militant, be he "barbarian, Scythian, bond, or free," it heightens the joy of heaven. Whether it be a diminutive Esquimaux, amid the everlasting snows and frosts of the north, or a sable son of Africa, on the burning plains of the south, "there is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth." As one after another becomes "an heir of God," and "a joint heir with Jesus Christ"-lives faithfully, fights valiantly, endures manfully, and "so has an entrance administered unto him abundantly into the everlasting kingdom of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ," God furnishes him with his robe, and palm, and crown, and mansion. And though a nation be born in a day, he is at no loss to provide for them. He is not obliged, in consequence of additions to his family, either to lessen the portions of his other children, or, by pains-taking industry, acquire more property. Those happy spirits, "in blissful regions high," who already inhabit the city of God, will be none the poorer because God is bringing other sons to glory. Increasing their number multiplies and heightens their joy. As other individuals are introduced into their happy community, they feel the richer, love their Savior the better, his heaven the more. As other members are received into the family of the first-born in heaven, their ideas of the Divine munificence are enlarged. Acquaintance with the history of their new friends, not only interests and instructs, but affords them fresh proofs of his mercy and his grace. When sons and daughters are born of the Spirit in the Church militant, angels rejoice. When "they die in Jesus," they are carried by the angels to Abraham's bosom. Though an "innumerable company, which no man can number, from every nation, and kindred, and people, and tongue," will find their way to that better Canaan, there will be crowns, and palms, and robes, and mansions for all-"enough for each, enough for all, enough for evermore."

"I see a countless, happy throng,

In the blissful regions high

White robes, gold crowns, and lofty song,

With harps in harmony.

Faith cheers the hearts of God's humble poor:
Poor though I be, whenever

I think of yonder heavenly rest,

I feel I am blest for ever."

TEARS.

BY MARGARET.

THE sentiment has obtained somewhat extensively, that tears are unworthy a courageous disposition, and evince peculiar weakness and imbecility of mind. If this be true, however, we are at a loss to determine whether Homer has been faithful in his delineation of the Grecian hero, Achilles, who, it seems, with all his valor, occasionally gave way to tears. Thus, in the case of his loss of his love, Briseis, the poet tells us he went weeping along the shores of the salt sea, and would not be comforted, because of his misfortune. Æneas, too, who was likewise a great hero and warrior, gave vent to the most immoderate grief, when he beheld, in the temple of Carthage, a picture of his friends sacrificing their lives in behalf of their country.

Other examples might be given of great men and heroes weeping; but they are unnecessary. There is one example, however, which we should never forget: it is that of the Redeemer of mankind. See him standing over Jerusalem, exclaiming, in the tenderness of his heart, and with tears streaming from his eyes, "O, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that stonest the prophets, and killest them that are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thee under my wings as the hen doth her brood, but ye would not!" See him yet again at the tomb of Lazarus. How compassionate, how sympathizing, how ready to mingle his tears with the tears of the mourners there assembled!

No! tears are not a sign of weakness. There is a sacredness in them-there is beauty and divinity connected with them. Speak, then, no ill of tears, but know that others, better and mightier than yourself, have wept, and wept in strains of the deepest sorrow. "No radiant pearl, which crested fortune wears,

No gem, that twinkling hangs from beauty's ears,
Nor the bright stars, which night's blue arch adorn,
Nor rising suns that gild the vernal morn,
Shine with such lustre, as the tear that breaks,
For others' woe, down virtue's manly cheeks."

THE FAILINGS OF GENIUS. THE elegance and fine sympathy which pervade the writings of Goldsmith are proverbial. From them it would seem that their author lived in perpetual sunshine, and that he had the smile of love perpetually on his brow, and the milk of human kindness ever in his heart. Yet how different! Ill-fated Oliver! he was always in a jealous and irritable mood when in society-always whining and complaining. When, on a certain occasion, a lampoon appeared in a newspaper, on "Oliver Goldsmith, Esq., M. D., et cetera," his rage was unbounded. He promised and attempted to give the editor a sound flogging, but failed in the attempt, and in lieu thereof was soundly flogged himself.

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THE GREAT CHANGE.

BY ORCATIUS.

DEATH is the universal doom. The flower of the valley springs up, blooms for awhile in variegated beauty, but perishes as soon as the gray livery of autumn is thrown over the face of nature. The oak of the forest, through whose branches the winds of heaven have whistled for centuries, and which, at all times and seasons, has been the retreat alike of bird and beast, is at last prostrated by the resistless tornado. Man himself, whom God has distinguished above all the works of his hand, and who stands proud lord of creation's realms, has within him the seeds of death, and finally yields to that stroke which severs him from friends and life, and consigns him to the quiet of oblivion.

We look around. Everywhere we are admonished of our mortality-the monuments of the grave stand on every hand. We gaze; we sigh; we look around; "we sink, lamenting or lamented, all the same." How true, yet beautiful the language of the inspired writer: "Man, that is born of woman, is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down; he fleeth as a shadow, and continueth not. There is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease, though the root thereof wax old in the earth, and the stock thereof die in the ground; yet, through the scent of water, it will bud and bring forth boughs like a plant. But man wasteth away; yea, man giveth up the ghost, and where is he?" What emblems of human life and human frailty have we here, and what a mournful lesson of the uncertainty of life is taught us too! "Years following years steal something every day: At last they steal us from ourselves away." Let death and reflections upon death have their due weight upon our characters and minds. We cannot be too soon nor too well prepared to render our account to the Judge of all the earth. We cannot dwell too much on heaven and hell, God and eternity. We are spared, it is true. We are neither dead nor in the world of despair; yet we know not how soon we may be called away: the angel may be on his way to execute his solemn commission, and already death may have marked us for his victims.

But while we all must die, blessed be God, we have a rock of defense and safety. Our Redeemer, though once offered for our sins, will never be offered again: he will die no more. His years know no change; his love has no end; his mercy is from everlasting to everlasting; his ear is ever open to our cry. Still, then, let us supplicate his throne; still let us seek his guidance; and still let us pray that prayer of earnest, agonizing faith,

"O Thou that wouldst not have
One wretched sinner die;

Who diedst thyself, my soul to save

From endless misery!

Show me the way to shun

Thy dreadful wrath severe;

That when thou comest on thy throne,

I may with joy appear."

"GATHERINGS OF THE WEST."

BY MRS. E. O. GAVITT.

АH! treasures from the far-famed west:

And what are they, pray tell?
What has the west in brilliants rare,
That will with eastern gems compare,
Where precious jewels dwell?

The treasures of the east were sung
On harps, in days of old;
But now, alas! each harp and lyre
Vibrates to poesy's genial fire,

And sings of western gold.
What treasures hast thou gathered,
Thou gleaner of the west?
Ah! here's a jewel from that realm:
'Twas found beneath the hallowed elm,
Which shades a cherub's rest.

Choice gems, and jewels far more rare,
Than found in precious mines,
Are gathered near that sacred tree,
To sparkle with their brilliancy,
In pure sweet classic lines.

And here are diamonds bright, to deck
And radiate thy page;
Historic gems of ancient lore-
A theme the erudite adore,

And master pens engage.
And here's a crystal, pure and bright,
The value of the soul;

O, that its sacred rays may win
Bright jewels from the realms of sin,

To love's divine control!

Here gentle hands have twined a wreath
Of aromatic flowers,
Emitting from each fragrant part
A charm to fascinate the heart,

And cheer life's passing hours.
Then gather on your precious store,
Sweet gatherer of the west;
In gathering thou dost scatter still;
The precious gems thy pages fill
Are numbered with the best.

HOPE.

FAIR hope, thou only star whose beams
Benignant cheer the waste of life,
Still guide my footsteps here, and bring
At last to endless life in heaven.

MISCELLANIA.

BY PROFESSOR LARRABEE.

AMONG my correspondents of olden time, was a lady, whose last letter was written twenty years ago this very day. I first became acquainted with her while I was teaching a small school in the interior of New England. I well remember the day I first passed her dwelling. A funeral procession was forming at the door, and there was borne over the threshold a little child, arrayed in its beauty and loveliness for the grave, followed by the father and mother, and a whole family of little brothers and sisters. I was but a youth-a mere boy, among strangers, friendless and alone-trying to acquire, by teaching school, the means of paying my own expenses for a few weeks at the academy. The lady, the mother of the lost child, a few days after my arrival, invited me to her house. Of course, I went; for I felt greatly the need of sympathy and kindness. Indeed, few know how much the young man, especially the student, away from home, pines for a mother's affection and a sister's love. I found her surrounded by wealth and friends, and a large family of lovely children. On entering her house, I was received with a welcome so hearty as to make me feel at once perfectly at home, and to win my most implicit confidence. I felt that I was captivated; for such a woman could wield over me an influence irresistible. And how judiciously did she use that influence. She became to me all that a mother could be. She was a woman of much intelligence, of excellent taste, of generous sympathies, of philanthropic liberality, and of deep religious feeling. After my engagement at school-keeping was out, and I returned to my studies, she became my weekly correspondent. Her letters would form a good sized volume, and are worthy of being read, and reread again and again. From no means, in the whole course of my intellectual, moral, and religious training, did I receive more aid than from her letters.

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youth's heart. He sits down to read the letter, with subdued spirit and softened heart. His habits of thought become polished, his sentiments refined, his principles of virtue strengthened, and his whole nature humanized. Especially is the influence of such a correspondence felt with the most beneficial results on one who has neither mother nor sisters; but whose heart is as homeless as Noah's dove.

For some two years was this correspondence regularly kept up; and I had, also, an opportunity, during vacation, of spending, once or twice a year, a day or two in the family. During one of my visits, it was twenty summers ago, I saw on the cheek of my gentle one, whom I had learned to look on as a guardian angel, unmistakable indications of the approach of the destroyer of the beauty and the bloom of New England-consumption. She seemed unconscious of danger, nor were her family at all apprehensive of any thing in her condition of health requiring attention. She had taken cold, and was troubled with a slight cough. But I had learned to watch the approach of that pale spectre, that had already summoned away from my side many a loved one.

A few weeks were sufficient to develop the disease in its most fatal form; that form, under which the patient, without pain and in cheerful spirits, gradually, but surely, descends to the grave. She soon saw the inevitable result, and calmly, as the child would repose in its cradle, she resigned herself to death. To us, in health, how strange seems the composure with which the Christian goes to the grave. To die-to leave this beautiful world-to go from our home to return no more to leave our children and all on earth we love-who, in health, can think of this with composure? But God, in mercy to the human race, sends on us disease, whose great design seems to be to reconcile us to death. The afflictions of earth become thus blessings. This good woman looked on her journey to the spirit world, with as much composure as she would on the journey of a day to visit some friend. She only felt interested to provide for the education of her children. In my last interview with her, she expressed a hope, which she said she had long indulged, that, when I had finished my studies in college, my circumstances in life might admit of my superintending the education of her children, the eldest of whom was then but about sixteen.

Thus died, when scarce her youth had passed away, one of the loveliest beings I ever saw. We buried her, in a spot selected by herself, beneath a vigorous old apple tree, in the orchard. Two of her younger children soon followed her, and the others came to maturity.

Many years after her death, perhaps twelve or

beside her grave. It was one of those seasons peculiarly fruitful in reflections. The landscape about